


Taking Matters Into Her Own Hands

by zjofierose



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Kíli/Tauriel - Freeform, Consensual Sex, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, a hint of romance, considerate sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may be that Sigrid is marrying a friend for politics, but that doesn't mean she can't damn well have a good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Matters Into Her Own Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I was out of practice writing honest-to-goodness smut, and well... then there was this. I don't think it's my best work, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless! (Also, I am no super-educated Tolkien fan, so if there are inaccuracies, my apologies.)
> 
> Comments are love! Love me here, or [love me on Tumblr!](http://zjofierose.tumblr.com/)

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind them, masking the sound of the drunken revelers carousing down the hallway back to the great hall for continued feasting. Sigrid's a little tipsy herself, and can't help but giggle at the remembered image of Bofur with his hat on sideways singing incredibly bawdy lyrics to the tune of a traditional dwarven nursery rhyme he'd taught her not a week prior. She can hear Fíli chuckling beside her, his laugh deep and rumbling in his barreled chest, and she turns to find him shaking his head, his mustaches twitching with mirth.

Their eyes catch, and he smiles at her quick and sweet, making a flush rise in her cheeks as she breaks her gaze away.

It's warm in the room, overly so; the fire has been built up and left roaring for the hours of the ceremony and feast, no doubt regularly stoked by some conscientious servant concerned for the well-being of the thin-skinned human. She can feel the first beading of sweat between her breasts, and thinks to herself that Fíli is going to die of heatstroke in his heavily brocaded wedding clothes after about five minutes if things remain like this.

She takes a deep breath and steps closer to the fire, beginning to painstakingly loosen her overdress, working the tooled silver buttonhook she'd had slipped into her pocket around each hand-wrought golden button that marches down her front. Behind her she can hear Fíli breathe a sigh of relief as he slips out of his boots and removes what sounds like several pounds of rattling gold chains from his beard before shucking out of his coat and folding it carefully over the back of the chair.

Her buttons finished, she sheds her overdress, carefully pulling each heavily embroidered sleeve over her be-ringed hands so that none of the fabric catches. She hangs it in the wardrobe in the next small room before returning to stand in front of the fire again.

With her arms and neck open to the air, the heat of the room begins to feel good, relaxing muscle tension she's been carrying for weeks, if not years. She rolls her head from side to side, creating an almighty clanking cacophony of earrings, necklaces, and rattling headdress that has Fíli laughing at her from across the room.

She turns to stick her tongue out at him as he pulls loose his vest.

“It's not funny, dwarf.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It's very funny indeed, woman. Though I will say I'm quite impressed with your neck, at the moment. I'd no idea you contained sound enough structural engineering to support all that.” He nods vaguely at the amount of decoration on her abused head. “You'll not catch me calling humans weak any time soon.”

She sniffs and turns away, stepping over to the dark wooden vanity to begin the process of removing the vast quantity of ornamentation from her person. The vanity's low surface holds several jewelry boxes that she recognizes from this morning, when Dis and her handmaidens had dressed her for the ceremony, but there's a new one waiting in the middle that she doesn't think she's seen before. It's small and square, nearly unassuming, but traced all over with a profusion of wildflowers carefully carved to look as though they're blowing in the wind. She runs a finger over the intricacies of the shapes, and doesn't notice him come up beside her.

“Do you like it?”

She lets the pad of her finger catch on the lip, raising the lid to inspect the inside. It's empty, but lined with velvet in a royal blue. It won't hold much, but will be good for traveling.

“It's beautiful, Fíli .” She shuts the lid again so that she can further admire the flowers. “Did you make it?”

He nods, and doesn't quite meet her eyes, his smile lopsided on his kind face.

“It's traditional. Dunno if they told you or not, but I wanted you to have something from my own hands.” He shrugs. “I knew they'd give you all these others” he gestures at the larger, gaudier boxes on the table in gold and silver and bronze, “but I thought maybe you'd like something a little smaller, simpler, just for your most favored things.”

She runs her hand over the top of it once more before leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. “I love it. Thank you.” She catches his eye, and her face falls. “They did tell me, actually, and I have a gift for you, but...I'm afraid it's at the very bottom of my chest which is being delivered tomorrow.” She hangs her head in remorse.

“Not to worry.” He lifts her chin with a blunt finger and smiles. “You'll have plenty of time to give it to me. A lifetime, even.” She rolls her eyes and laughs, turning back to her dressing table and beginning to pull off her rings, carefully placing them back into the open boxes. She pauses for a moment, then nestles her shiny new wedding ring gently into Fíli 's box, and can feel him smile at her elbow.

He shuffles off after a moment, across the room and into the necessary, and she's struck by simultaneous waves of freedom and loneliness. It's the first time she's been by herself all day, and the silence is blissful, but she's also deeply appreciated his steady presence by her side throughout the whole giant, long-winded affair that is the joining of the kingdoms of Dale and Erebor. With him gone, she suddenly has more personal space than she's had in hours, but, at the same time, she is once again an over-dressed girl in far too much jewelry.

She shakes her head, dispelling the tired clouds, and starts in on the bracelets and necklaces. She's nearly finished when he returns to painstakingly remove his own elaborate headdress and let down his long, fair hair. Her last necklace comes free, and then it's only the complexly woven set of braids and baubles and beads atop her head. She frowns into the mirror, not even knowing where to start.

“May I?”

He's down to his shirt sleeves and trousers now, bare feet a little incongruous on the stone floor. He's brought a stool over from somewhere, and she flops down on it with an inelegant sigh of relief.

“If you can figure out how to only remove the pieces that are  _not_ growing from my scalp, I will be delighted. I'm fair convinced I'd take half my hair out in the process.”

He chuckles, and sets his fingers quietly to work, freeing combs and pins and chains in a steady rhythm. It's hypnotic, watching him in the mirror, and she lets herself lean her back against his solid stomach as he works.

“All of this has significance for dwarves, yes?”

He  _hmms_ in agreement, and pulls free another gracefully carved comb.

“Some of it. Mostly for today the point is simply to show the skill and riches of Thorin's house; so, the more ornate, the better.” He manages to free a large portion of the back which goes tumbling down her shoulders, provoking a shiver with the tickle of hair on her bare skin. “But there are certain things, yes. This braid here,” he pulls out a small two-stranded piece from above her left ear, “is a standard courting braid. Two strands for a younger man, three for an older man. Left side for a family's heir, right side for a second son or lower.”

“Tauriel wears hers on the right.”

“Yes. And the beads make things more specific; the more beads, the longer the courtship has gone on. Also, if there are more than two sons, the beads can help identify which younger son is doing the courting.” He pulls a second braid out of her slowly disintegrating up-do, this one beginning at her left temple and twisting into a rope pattern. “When you have been married, you add this style of braid, to show that you have become part of the family. The pattern indicates the family unit, and the beads indicate the family.” He carefully frees them, pulling the hair smooth with his fingers, and she's almost sorry to see them go. His face in the mirror is thoughtful, his hands going back to the top of her head. “And this, here,” he indicates the carefully woven coronet on the top of her head, pulling free one last bejeweled pin, “this is the mark of the royal family. Currently only you and our mother are high-ranking enough to wear this style, though if my brother and Tauriel ever manage to make things official, she will be able to as well.” He pulls the final pieces free, dragging his fingers through it as it settles to her waist in a brass-colored cloud. She wordlessly picks up the silver-plated brush she'd discovered earlier and hands it to him. He smiles as he takes it, and sets to work, his long steady strokes making her hum with pleasure.

–

The engagement had been Balin's idea originally; Thorin had yet to show any interest in begetting new heirs, and though the relations between Dale and Erebor had thawed significantly in the few years since the battle, there were as many who would be happy to disrupt the tenuous alliance as there were who would strengthen it. But, the theory went, if the Crown Prince should marry the Lady of Dale, well, not only would it solve the problem of getting the succession nicely continued, but it would provide a great feast and festival for all concerned, and who could speak against that?

Her father had approached her about it first, wary but earnest. The terms were good; she would rule with Fíli as Queen equal to any dwarrowdam Queen who'd ever been. Her children would be next in the line of succession, mixed race or not. In return, she would relinquish all claim to Dale for her and her heirs in favor of Bain and Tilda's offspring, only reclaiming them in case the line of Girion were to die out.

She'd heard him out, and taken a day to think it over before going to find Fíli .

“I presume Balin's already talked to you?”

He'd paused with his knife in midair over his bowl, a piece of chicken speared halfway to his mouth. She'd settled onto the bench across from him, setting her mug down on the tabletop and arranging her skirts. It was late for lunching, and so she knew she'd find him in the smaller dining hall alone; he'd told her once that with everyone clamoring for a piece of him at every hour of the day, he liked to eat in privacy to gather his thoughts. It was now her clamoring for a piece of his attention, she supposed, and sat quietly while he brought the bite to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Aye, he has.”

His face was cautious, and she rolled her eyes.

“And?”

He shrugged.

“And it's a reasonable proposal.” He looked at her curiously. “I'd never pressure you if you're not interested, nor be offended should you turn it down, but...” he looked down to his bowl to stab another bite, “but it makes sense. I'd go along.”

She took a long drink of her ale to cover her surprise. They'd become friends over the past few years, she and Fíli , working often on the same or related projects, discussing politics as the designated heirs of their respective kingdoms. They weren't what she'd have called close, really, but they got along well and shared a mutual respect.

That said, she couldn't say that it had ever crossed her mind to marry him.

“Surely you'd rather some lovely dwarven lass with good whiskers and a golden axe?”

He smiled at her, pulling gently at one side of his mustache.

“Why would I want that? It's nice to be guaranteed the better beard.” She couldn't help but snicker at the thought of him overshadowed by his wife's mustaches, covering her mouth with her sleeve. “You're plenty lovely enough for me, pretty Sigrid.” He shrugged again. “I've always assumed I'd marry for politics, and if that's to be the case, I can think of far worse options than you.”

“Now that's what they call a backhanded compliment, O exalted Prince of Erebor.” She wagged a finger at him. “You'll have to work on those, if we're to be married.”

“Oh, aye.” He rolled his eyes at her. “I'll start right away, my lady. Truly, none shall match the verses I shall write in your honor. Fair daughter of the bargeman, skilled flinger of crockery and possessor of the loudest shriek, it is of you that I sing...” He pressed his hand to his heart, face earnest, and began to rise from the bench, arm outstretched.

“Oh, stop it!” She reached over laughing to pull him back down to his seat. “Eat your lunch, you rotten dwarf.”

He picked up his knife and bowl, squinting his eyes at her. “Oh, you mean like I was before I was so rudely interrupted?” He popped another bite into his mouth, and let his face grow more serious. “What about you? Have you not a dozen suitors tucked away pining for you? Surely there is some human lad who's stolen your heart.”

She pulled a face. “No. Don't be ridiculous.” She let her face fall, and took another drink. “No, there's not time for such things, you know that. And I'm only just nineteen, there hasn't been a rush.”

“Aye.” He set his knife down and spread his hands. “So, here we are, completely unentangled. That's convenient, indeed.”

She nodded slowly. “True enough. And Balin's right; it would be good for the kingdoms.” Fíli dipped his head in silent agreement as he tipped the bowl to his mouth to drink down the broth. “What of our age differences? I could care less that you're twice the age of my father, because you don't seem such. But my life will be shorter than yours; I'll be lucky indeed to have even half the years you have left.” She traced the wet ring on the table from her ale mug rather than look him in the eye. “Is it not a disservice to you, to be saddled with a wife who will grow old and die when you have but reached your late middle age?”

Fíli reached out to catch her hand, his fingers warm and rough.

“The future is always unknown. I could die tomorrow, and you could live to a hundred years.” She lifted her head to look at him, and found his face open and unconcerned. “It is probable that I will outlive you, yes, but what of it? If we have a good life together, if we have children and grandchildren and a kingdom to rule, I will be grateful for that, and content.” His eyes were earnest as they held hers. “Sigrid, I tell you as your friend, I would do right by you. Should you choose to accept Balin's terms, I would honor you as my wife and my Queen above all others. I would provide for you, and seek your wisdom, and hold you as my equal in all things.”

She nodded slowly, careful not to break their gaze, her fingers warm in his.

“I do not love you.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Nor I you, but I believe that I could come to in time. And if not, then we are friends and partners. Many marry without love for far poorer reasons.”

“Aye.” It was true, she knew. And from what little she knew of dwarven marriage customs, every word Fíli had said was likely also true; they seemed to have no truck with infidelity, and certainly their women were prized far more than her own sisters among Men were. “Aye, you are right.” She shook herself, and smiled broadly at him across the battered tabletop and his empty wooden bowl.

“My lord Fíli , Crown Prince of Erebor, I, Lady Sigrid of Dale shall accept your proposal.” She tipped her head regally to watch him produce his lopsided smile of amusement at her use of their titles. “You have my leave to court me.”

–

He finishes brushing her hair and plaits it into one long braid, tying it at the end with a thin leather thong and laying it over her shoulder before digging his thumbs into the base of her skull. She moans unreservedly, letting her head fall limp into his strong hands.

He chuckles. “Is my lady wife falling for me so quickly?”

“ _Gods_ , keep doing that, and I will be.” She tips her head a little to the side and hisses out a breath as his fingers hit a tender spot. He laughs softly, and she can feel the warm air of his breath raise the hairs on the back of her neck. She is suddenly aware in ways she's forgotten that she is alone and more than a little undressed in a room with a man whom she has just married, and that really, the evening is only likely to progress from here.

She must tense unconsciously with the realization, because he removes his hands from her bare skin, stepping backward and leaving a cool space behind her.

“Sigrid, I...”

“Fíli .” She makes her voice firm, and catches his eyes in the mirror. His face is open, but with hints of apprehension around the eyes. She is not afraid of him, of this, never has been, so she lifts her chin and holds his gaze.

“I cannot reach to untie my skirts and stays.” She takes a breath to steady herself. “Husband, will you undress me?”

Fíli sucks in a quick draught of air, but his face in the mirror begins to smile. “Sigrid,” he says, and she can hear it in his voice that he wants to know that she's sure, that she knows she doesn't have to rush things. She appreciates it, she does; he's a good man and she is grateful for it.

She stands, letting his hands fall to lightly rest at her hips for a long moment before she steps over to face the fire again, and turns her head to watch him draw near.

“Please.”

He smiles deep and slow before he takes a step, and the pit of her stomach leaps in response, her mind summoning the rasp of his fingers on her skin moments ago, goosebumps rising on her arms as she remembers the heat of him. He steps up close behind her, hands going to her waist and settling over the firm boning of her stays.

“Widen your stance,” is all he says, and she does, stepping her feet apart and bracing as his deft fingers loosen the knots and begin to unlace the several lines of cinching that run from under her arms to the top of her hips. She groans freely as the first layer pulls off in his hands, the beautifully beaded brocade waist cincher coming loose to be set to one side. He carries on without pause, pulling out the ties of her underdress where they crisscross from her armpits to her waist.

“Lift.”

She raises her arms and dips her knees so that he can pull the underdress up over her head and off, leaving her in her thin, lace-edged chemise and her heavy skirts. His hands at her waist are sure, and she shudders involuntarily at the feel of his warm fingers through the light fabric covering her skin. He pauses, and she shakes her head.

“ _Please_ .”

The sound of her voice is husky and low, surprising her, but Fíli carries on without comment at her urging, unknotting the ties of her skirts and easing them down over her hips.

“I assume,” he begins, and thinks for a moment before continuing his sentence as he reaches her knees, “that you have at least a theoretical understanding of what occurs in a marriage bed?” He taps her left ankle, and she steps out over the puddle of cloth on the floor, one foot and then the other.

“Theoretical, yes.” There's a soft rushing sound as he sweeps her skirts aside and off to somewhere nearby.

“And have you any practical experience?” He's back behind her now, and she thinks from what she can see in her peripheral vision that he has shucked off his own shirt as well. “Not that I would mind if you had,” he hastens to add, “I know that is a concern in the realms of men, but we place far less stock in such customs.”

Her chemise comes only to her knees and just covers her shoulders, dipping low in front and back to remain hidden under gowns. He sets the back of his knuckles just under her hairline and drags them down slowly along her spine until he runs into the edge of fabric across her shoulder blades. She feels the echoes of his touch all the way to her toes.

“No.” She shakes her head ruefully. “As you say, women are held to a certain standard in the lands of Men, and I did not wish to jeopardize my father's standing or my own future matches.” She ducks her head and glances slyly at him over her shoulder. He's completely golden in the firelight, gilded hair and glowing skin. “But I did let Edemere Hrayson put his hand on my breast once, just to see.” She narrows her eyes. “I was unimpressed.”

He throws his head back and laughs, moving his hands to cup her shoulders and slide reverently down her bare arms until he can entwine their fingers and move forward, pressing himself to her back.

“Well, one can hardly blame him. He must have been completely beside himself at the opportunity.”

She snickers, then inhales sharply as he presses his warm mouth to the curve of her shoulder. “Well, I certainly hope so. Still, I've assumed there's more to it than a quick squeeze and pull, given the way the girls down the docks used to carry on about their boyfriends.”

“Oh, lass.” Fíli pulls her right arm gently backward to wrap around him, the cool back of her hand resting in the warm small of his spine, and she takes a moment to be gratified at the closeness of their size. She is not tall for her kind, and thus he is only a very few inches her inferior, which means that he can drag his clever mouth up the side of her neck in what turns out to be a most pleasing way. She doesn't notice where his hand has gone until it's settling on her ribcage, too distracted by the brush of his whiskers on her bare skin. “There is, in fact,  _quite_ a bit more.” His large hand comes up slowly, gently cupping the swell of her breast, lifting lightly to feel the weight and shape of it before swiping a rough thumb across the cloth covering her nipple. She gasps audibly, and presses her knees together against the tickling warmth beginning between her thighs.

“I'm no fool, Fíli . I know what happens between men and women. You do not need to play soft with my sensibilities.”

He drags his thumb across her nipple again, pushing with his other hand against her hip to turn her body to face him. He's flushed and grinning wickedly, pulling his hands down her sides to her flanks.

“Ah, but Sigrid, I've heard tell of what men do with their women. Selfish idiots.” He makes an exaggerated face of disappointment, running his large hands up the backs of her thighs. “Men care only for their own pleasure, as you have seen. A squeeze, a pull, and off they are.” His eyes twinkle at her, and he lifts her suddenly, making her squeal in delighted surprise as she clutches at his shoulders and wraps her legs instinctively around his waist, her chemise hiking up around her hips as her bared flesh presses against the hair of his belly. “But  _I_ ,” he declares loftily, a grin playing about his mouth as he strides across the room to drop her laughing on the bed, “am not a man.”

She sprawls backward across the wide mattress, her braid flying out behind and her shoulder baring itself from beneath the lace edge of her neckline. Fíli settles in on his knees beside her, warmly lit from the fireplace across the room. His shoulders are broader than her father's, broader even than the shoulders of the men who work down on the boats heaving nets of fish and boxes of goods.

The little differences between them fascinate her, and she takes in his appearance slowly. She's mostly thought of him as a rather short man from a different culture, but shirtless and up close, that's clearly untrue. His chest is barrel-shaped rather than flat, but there's not an inch of fat on him. His arms are layered with muscle, bones clearly thicker than a human's and limbs shorter in proportion to his core. He doesn't have much of a waist to speak of, his solid torso leading straight into boxy hips and powerful thighs under his trousers. His skin is golden, darker than hers and flushed with heat under the layer of bright hair, and a smattering of scars cover his forearms, no doubt from his time in the forges. Larger marks are few and far between, speaking both of his youth, and his skill in battle.

She lifts her hand to trace the path of the one long scar that wends down from the top of his shoulder onto his left pectoral. The hair on his chest is softer than she expects, and she bites her lip at the heat of his skin under her fingers.

“Kíli , when we were much younger.” He smiles tightly, “his is worse,” and she laughs.

“What happened?”

He falls down beside her onto his elbow, propping his head on one hand as he uses the other to trace the path the same scar would follow on her skin.

“Well, we were drinking.” His mouth twitches, and she giggles, her chest lifting under his hand. “And there was a woman...”

“Who won?”

He grins ruefully. “Well, she did.”

She laughs outright and smacks her hand against his chest, forgetting the long day and their awkward situation entirely at the mental image of Fíli and Kíli as youngsters getting thumped down by a pretty dwarrowdam. He catches her hand and holds it against him, grinning down at her. She can feel his heart beating in his chest, a little lower down than where a man's would be, thudding hard and strong beneath his ribs.

“You've a good laugh, Sigrid. You should use it more.” She flushes suddenly, thrown by the compliment, and he brings her hand to his mouth, his eyes holding hers as he presses a kiss into her palm. Goosebumps appear all over her skin at the touch of his whiskers on the sensitive skin of her fingers, and when he catches the tip of her thumb between his even teeth she shudders, her eyes going wide. He bites lightly at the heel of her hand as he begins to move his mouth down her arm, eyes never leaving her face, reading her responses as she pulls in air between her teeth. His mouth on the inner skin of her wrist is a revelation, and she lets her head tip back as he leans in and down, pressing his nose to the bend of her elbow and sucking a small mark just above, where her sleeve will cover it.

He pauses halfway up her bicep and raises his head to watch admiringly as he outlines the muscle of her upper arm with his fingers. She flexes her arm instinctively at the touch and he grins approvingly at the involuntary show of strength before bringing his hand up to cup her cheek.

“You look like a scene from a fairy tale, or one of the old songs.” He lets his fingers trail down her throat, then lifts them to run his thumb over the line of her mouth. “A legendary beauty, lying in wait in the dark of the night.”

She can feel the color rise in her cheeks. She's not used to being called beautiful by someone who doesn't simply want something from her father, and she doesn't quite know what to make of it.

“Oh? And what happens next in these stories?”

He tucks his thumb into the corner of her mouth, and she opens it, turning her head slightly to suck the tip of his thumb into her mouth, letting it rest on her tongue as she meets his eyes. His expression changes as she traces the edge of his knuckle with her tongue, his gaze sharpening as she shifts against the sheets.

“Well,” he continues, his eyes dark in the dim light, “the bards don't usually say.” She bites gently at the pad of his thumb, a swift but firm press of teeth, and he licks his lips before speaking again. “One assumes quite a bit of kissing.”

She laughs, and he withdraws his hand from her lips, anchoring it firmly on her waist as he leans in. “What do they say in the human tales?”

“Well, as you say,” she murmurs, distracted by the presence of his face so close to hers, the warm and faintly musky smell of him surrounding her, “they like to leave them open-ended. But...” she lifts her hand to sink her fingers into his hair, “we  _do_ mention the kissing.”

He's chuckling as she pulls him down, his mouth on hers still smiling as their lips meet. She has kissed before, but not much, and certainly not recently, and never,  _ever_ like this, with Fíli 's weight so close above her, the solid bulk of his thigh pressed against hers. He kisses her like he wants her, like he desires her, and somehow it had never occurred to her that this would be anything more than a somewhat embarrassing chore between friends. Never let it be said, she thinks, that she is anything but adaptable, and she kisses him back in earnest, opening her mouth to him and bringing up her other arm to wrap around his shoulders.

He kisses with significantly more finesse than anyone else in her admittedly limited previous experience, and she's so distracted by the hot slide of his tongue against hers that she doesn't notice his hand creeping up her bare leg until he's under her chemise and halfway up her thigh. She jumps in surprise as the tips of his warm fingers graze her bottom, and he pulls back to look her in the eye.

“Alright?”

She nods so hard she thinks she might break something, and uses her fingers still tangled in his hair to pull him back to her, sealing their mouths together as his hand climbs higher. The touch of his fingers is electric, his hand spanning nearly half her waist, and there's something so illicit feeling about laying here next to him with his hands on her bare skin, never mind that they've just been wed in front of gods and kin. Here, it's just the dark of their room and their rasping breaths, the strangely metallic taste of his mouth on hers, the drag of his calluses on her tender underbelly.

She breaks away to catch her breath, but he doesn't give her a chance, taking his leave from her lips to settle over her chest. He meets her gaze for the briefest of moments, gives a wicked grin, and latches his mouth onto her breast, making her gasp and drag her heels down the mattress. His breath over the fabric of her chemise is warm and wet, his teeth nipping at the mound of her breast before sucking her nipple into his mouth.

It's like lightning ignites in her belly, and she had no idea it felt like  _this_ , this push/pull of sensation lighting up from her toes to her fingers to her teeth. She arches her back and he spreads his fingers wide, wrapping around her rib cage as his insistent mouth pulls at her chest. She'd be embarrassed by the noises she's making if he weren't so visibly pleased by them, lifting up briefly from the soaked fabric to transfer his attentions to her other breast, even as his fingers come up to stroke the first underneath the damp cloth, twisting just gently as she cries out her sensitivity.

“Gods,  _Sigrid_ ...” Fíli sounds out of breath, and she stares up at him, dragging a hand down his shoulder to his pectorals. She tangles her hand in the soft golden thatch on his chest, letting her fingers seek out and find his own sensitive spots to touch and stroke. He draws in a hard breath as she pinches a nipple between her fingers and pulls gently, and takes his hand from under her chemise to stroke the loose hairs away from her face, cupping her cheek in his rough palm.

“Tell me, pretty Sigrid,” he smiles down at her, and she wills her heart to calm, her breathing to slow from panting, “have you ever brought yourself pleasure?”

“Have I...” it takes her a moment to get it, and when she does, she can feel her cheeks flame with heat at his question. She knows the other races are more free with their sexualities than the race of men, but even so, she's not prepared to hear such an intimate question, but. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks; she lives now among dwarves, she'd better just get used to it.

She lifts her chin. “I have.”

His smile is kind, but also anticipatory, and he drops down fully beside her on the bed, rolling her onto her side and pulling her back against him once more. Her head is cradled on his thick bicep, and she can feel the firm evidence of his arousal against her backside. She rocks her hips backwards without thinking, and he groans softly in her ear before setting his hand on her hip to still her.

“Not yet,” he says, and she's a little confused, because isn't that the point? “First, will you show me?”

She doesn't answer, still puzzling it out, and he must mistake her confusion for reluctance, because he speaks again, his voice quiet in her ear.

“Among dwarves, there are not nearly as many females as males. Thus, it is the calling of the dwarves to keep our dams happy and satisfied. Any dwarf considers it a mark of esteem to be able to well pleasure his female, but each individual is different, and I expect that you are different further still, so...” he slips his hand under hers, the closest to hesitant she's ever seen him. “I would learn from you how to bring you pleasure. Will you show me?”

_Oh_ , she thinks, and breathes out slowly. His hand under hers is solid and strong, and the thought of what it might be like to feel those thick fingers between her legs has her biting her bottom lip with sudden anticipation. She inhales, and nods briefly, not trusting her voice, then tightens her grip on his hand where it rests on her upper hip.

His “ _thank you_ ” is so soft in her ear that she nearly misses it, caught in the slide of their fingers across the cloth over her belly. The chemise is already a bit of a mess, so she doesn't bother to pull it up, just pulls his hand down the curve of her stomach to the soft hollow at the base of her torso. She's always liked the feel, the friction, of cloth against her sex anyway, and give that he's asked what she likes... well, she may as well show him in full.

His mouth on her neck catches her off-guard, and she gasps her encouragement as he kisses a line down from the space behind her ear to the point of her shoulder, even as he somehow works his free hand down the gaping front of her blouse to cup and fondle her breast. She'd like to spend a moment being impressed at his coordination and dexterity, but the tug of his rough fingers on her nipple sends a burst of heat to her nethers that have her inelegantly shoving his hand down between her legs without so much as a thought of hesitation.

He chuckles in her ear, and she'd be offended, but she's too busy riding the first wave of pleasure that comes from the rasp of the swiftly dampening cotton under his warm fingers as he presses down and lets her guide his motions slowly up and down, her hips pressing restlessly back and forth between the wall of his lap behind her and the heated grasp of his hand before.

“Like this?” He slips a finger between her folds, still stroking in the rhythm she's set, and she sighs in pleasure, loosening her grip on his hand as her motions become instinctive. He's a devastatingly quick study, his hand under hers strong, but his touch light. It's uncanny the way he's able to intuit what she wants from the lightest of pressures on the back of his hand, moving to accommodate her every instruction.

“Gods, yes.  _Fíli_ ...”

He takes his hand away for a moment, and she nearly whimpers at the loss. She doesn't usually get this worked up this quickly, but it's completely different, the sensations of someone else's skin against hers, the unpredictability of his touch combined with his presence behind and against and around her.

“Here.” His hand comes back at her knee, pulling her upper leg up and out so that it arcs back over his own legs behind her. She shivers at the sensation of air on her newly bared skin, and chews her lip at how exposed she suddenly feels. He must sense her apprehension, because his lips on her cheek are gentle rather than heated, and his hand stays almost chastely on the inside of her knee. “Alright?”

She inhales, and nods, focusing her body on the heat of the room and the desire still racing through her veins, releasing her breath along with the tension in her muscles. It's not hard to refocus, really; at her go-ahead, Fíli has begun sliding his hand carefully up the inside of her thigh, and her arousal returns with a vengeance. He pauses again with his hand right at the curve of her hip, his fingers tracing the line of hair at the join of her leg, and she nearly smacks him in frustration.

“Yes, Fíli ,  _please_ ...” She gets her hand around his wrist and  _pulls_ just as he leans up and over to capture her mouth with his, kissing her with a heat she can't help but return. His rough fingers settling in the slick heat of her folds set off fireworks in her belly, her hips rising to meet his touch as he buries his hand between her legs, stroking firmly in the patterns she's shown him. She can feel his cock twitching against the back of her thigh, but he seems more than happy as he is, mouth moving on hers as his clever craftsman's fingers bring her soaring to the heights of pleasure in a ridiculously short time. She can barely catch her breath as his hand wanders even further down, pausing briefly with one thick digit against her entrance. She arches her back and thrusts her hips and he's in, pulling a startled gasp from them both as he buries himself to the knuckle in her dark heat.

“ _Mahal_ , Sigrid, the things you do to me...”

His finger inside of her is wicked, pressing in syncopated thrusts that leave her climbing, while the palm of his hand is still managing to drag infuriatingly back and forth over her knot of aching nerves. It's not  _anything_ like doing this to herself, and she can't begin to bring herself to care that many would deem her selfish for taking her pleasure at his hands while offering no recompense.

“I am fair certain, my prince,” she manages, even as she presses her hips hard into his hand, “that it is  _you_ ”, she gasps, “doing things to  _me_ .”

He doesn't even chuckle at her, just leans up and over and fastens his mouth onto her bare breast, suckling at her teat with a determined mouth and an assiduous tongue, and she's lost, arching her back and shouting out her pleasure as she comes, her body shuddering around his hand.

He holds her through it, hand securely in place, until her back thumps down on the mattress at last, final tremors running through her body as she comes down. She's breathing hard and flushed, and he smiles broadly at her as he frees his fingers and catches the hem of her chemise.

“Off!” he says, tugging boldly at it, and she flings her arms up with a sigh, too adrift in pleasure to sit up, but more than willing to let him pull it off over her head. She's overheated again, and far too content to feel more than passingly self-conscious about the fact that she's sprawled out naked beneath his gaze.

“Pretty Sigrid” he says, reaching a hand out to stroke the curve of her breast. His touch is like magic, forcing her to draw in a breath that lifts her breast under his fingers, fitting it into the cup of his hand and pooling heat in her belly even as she finishes shuddering from the pleasure she's just received.

“I would worship you,” he says, and his tone is so sincere she has to close her eyes, feeling him shift beside her, and then a sudden coolness as he moves away. She opens her eyes in confusion, and sees him standing at the side of the bed, powerful chest and straining trousers, and barely has time to open her mouth to question before he's caught her behind the knees and pulled her down the bed until her hips are at the edge.

“I would show you, with my hands...” He sets his palms to her sides and slides them over her torso, caressing downward in a meandering pattern, skirting her hips and sliding down between her legs to massage her inner thighs and push her knees apart. “...with my mouth...” He leans in and pulls the bud of her breast into his mouth, and by all the gods, she had not known how directly the line ran from her breasts to her sex, because the damp heat of his tongue has her legs spreading of their own accord, her flesh throbbing in readiness, and  _gods_ , it has  _never_ felt like this before.

She has her eyes closed, and so misses him falling to his knees before her, not putting together his words and his actions until the first drag of his tongue to her folds. She nearly knees him in the face in surprise, but he anticipates her response and catches her leg before she can do any damage, guiding her heels up to rest on the edge of the mattress, her legs bent in half and spread wide around his head.

It's slower than the first time, but not by much; the suck of his mouth on her sex is even better than on her breast, and when he slides two fingers into her, she can't help but moan and bear down. The pleasure this time is a wave that washes over her, cresting higher and higher between the unrelenting lick and suck of his mouth and the push and drag of his fingers, first two, then three. She comes hard and long, her hips rising off the mattress of their own accord, her spine stiffening as she rides it out, stars bursting behind her closed eyes.

There's a long moment in which she catches her breath, and then looks up to see him watching her, expression two parts pride and one part nervous hope. She can't help but smile at him, waves of languid pleasure still dissipating as her breathing slows.

“Yes, yes. You did very well indeed, now take those” she gestures at his still-present trousers, “ _off_ , and come here.”

He grins cheekily and shucks them off in one swift movement, leaving her attempting not to gape as he stands in all his bare glory. “As my lady commands, of course.” He sweeps a bow, his courtly manners made only slightly ludicrous by his standing member bouncing against his stomach.

She scoots lazily up the bed, spreading her legs to make room for him, but he presses her knees closed and settles himself down beside her again, pushing her so they're both length-wise on the mattress for the first time.

“No, here.” He gets himself situated on his back, then slips an arm under her and pulls her up as though she's a feather-weight, tapping the inside of her thigh to cue her to swing her leg over so that she's sitting on his abdomen, hands splayed upon his chest. He's a good fit between her thighs, not too wide, but warm and dense beneath her. “This will feel better, your first time.”

She leans down to kiss him for his consideration, and gets caught up in exploring his mouth, the brush of his mustache against her lip as intriguing as the tingle that shoots through her when he catches her lip in his teeth and bites, just a little.

“Alright, now it's your turn.” She presses her mouth to his one last time, then sits up determinedly. His eyes are very blue in the golden light, blue like the gems inlaid in the beads she'd had woven into her hair.“Show me what to do.”

He smiles, reaching up to pull affectionately on the end of her braid that's fallen down over her shoulder.

“Aye. Here, shift up.” He pats the back of her thighs, and she rises onto her knees above him, freeing him to scoot an inch or two up the bed. “Now,” he says, his face going more serious with concentration, “like this.” He slips two fingers back into her, and she sighs at the sensation, biting her lip as he works in a third. She's aware of the stretch, but is so relaxed that her muscles give quickly, leaving nothing but a pleasant fullness that swiftly becomes an instinctive itch when he flicks his thumb over her nub. She  _hmms_ , and he removes his fingers, reaching down to guide himself as she lowers down.

“ _Ah_ , yes.” He sucks in a tight breath as he breaches her, “slowly, there's no rush.” He keeps his thumb in place, rubbing delicate, devilish circles as she eases her way down. It's not at all like fingers, hers or his, or even really at all like the smooth wooden toy her cousin Elspeth had given her for her eighteenth birthday. He's wider and warm, and she can feel his member twitch within her as she sinks ever lower, and is impressed all over again with the iron control that has him waiting, with no sign of anger or impatience, for her to be ready.

Finally she's fully seated, her bottom resting in the concave of his hips, his cock a warm, solid fullness in her belly and his hand between her legs making her want to twitch or scream or maybe both.

“Now what?” Her voice is breathy and strange, and his chest beneath her hands is rising and falling like he's run a race. He reaches a hand up to stroke her cheek, and smiles.

“Now, pretty Sigrid,” he says, and sets his strong hands on her hips, “you  _move_ .”

The pressure of his grip pulls her forward, but the motion of his cock within her sets off an instinctive rock backward, and then she's moving of her own accord, her hips pressing back and forth in a determined roll that has her clutching his chest as she speeds up, his face tensing and releasing with her motions.

“Here,” he says, and pushes himself up beneath her, pulling his legs up to cross underneath her bottom without separating them, and  _oh_ , that changes  _everything_ . He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her sex flush against his abdomen and thrusting up as she rocks down, dragging her most sensitive parts against the firm heat of his belly. She grips onto his shoulders, anchoring herself to him as she moves harder and faster, riding him for all she's worth, rational thought lost in a thousand years of instinct handed down by countless lovers. She can feel that they're both close, that the last edges of holding out are fading away, and then he bends his mouth to her and she's lost, driving herself hard onto him and holding as he cries out and buries his face in her breasts as he finds his release deep within her.

They come down together, breathing more and more slowly, and finally she lets herself fall backward off his lap, a loose collection of bones and muscles and thoroughly rumpled hair. He disentangles himself from her legs and stands up, wearily grabbing a nearby cloth and dampening it in the basin to wipe himself, then her, clean. She can hear him banking the fire and draping his pants over the chair, blowing out the few remaining candles.

She's nearly asleep by the time he returns, climbing in next to her and rolling her onto her side so that he can pull her against his chest and haul the blanket up over them. She lifts her head just enough for him to shove a pillow under her head, and goes willingly into his arms. She can smell the scent of them heavy in the room, and it's comforting for all its newness, a reassurance that this new place is them together, something wholly unique and wanted.

“Well, my lady,” he murmurs in her ear, “I do believe that we are well and truly married.”

“Oh, aye.” She rubs her cheek into the fresh pillowcase, already drifting off. “And can we get well and truly married tomorrow, too?”

The last thing she hears as she succumbs to slumber is his low chuckle in her ear.

“Aye, and every day after, as you like.”

\--

 


End file.
